Neighborhood Watch
In retrospect, I realize, while I had dined at disaster’s table, I had never been force fed devastation...
My children had just left for school when I decided it was time for my morning run. Since my father died, I have renewed my habit of running outdoors. I strap on my Brooks, que up my favorite podcast, and for thirty minutes, the world is simple and calculated. It’s just me and the meditative rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement, predictable in my path, consistent with my pacing. On the trail, I can finally take a deep breath, jogging in the wide open space. Just hours ago, as I was lying in bed willing the last moments of night to transition to morning, curious if I’m running away from something. I shift uncomfortably between the sheets, simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. Am I drawn to the outdoors as the awareness of my inevitable resting place weighs on my subconscious: an airless, windowless coffin? I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that my father, who so recently brimmed with vivacity and energy is now housed in a box or the prospect of him reduced to cinders in an urn. At least in an urn, I could fantasize he was my personal Genie, able to appear at my whim and grant me wishes.
This particular morning is refreshingly crisp and cool. If Southern California had seasons, it might be described as Sweater Weather. Scrolling through my Apple fitness settings, I sprinted down the front steps of my courtyard, childish delight resurfacing at the crunch of leaves beneath each step out onto the sidewalk. I looked up towards the intersection and froze in place. A little girl lay at the edge of the crosswalk on the opposite side of the street.
A few neighbors stood in a semi circle around her. It was as if a magnet was pulling me toward the scene. This is the crosswalk I force my children to use. I can hear myself lecturing my son. “No, you can’t take the shortcut, Dexter. The crosswalk is where it is safe.” Reluctantly, he nods, rolling his eyes, sighing but eventually complying. My heart a little bit lighter as I watch him walk between the two narrow white stripes.
As I approach, I notice she looks the same age as my son-about ten years old, dressed in a school uniform, a light blue polo, pleated navy skirt, her hair cut short, bangs framing her small face. A man in purple scrubs kneels before her sorting through a first aid kit. His mid size SUV was pulled to the side of the road, his hazards blinking. His t-shirt was branded with an emblem for a local Emergency Room. She sits on a little white ice pack with her skinny legs pointed straight in front of her, knees knobby, feet fitted with a pair of little black ankle boots. The laces tied perfectly, the soles visibly pristine.
Illustration by Lizy Davis
I hear Hemingway's rumored six word story:
For sale-baby shoes, never worn.
“I’m going to pop into that little Swiss chocolate shop next week.” I told my husband between bites. “I’ll call him and see if he wants to have lunch.” My husband reached for another truffle.
“He will really like that, babe.”
I crawled into Barrett’s lap, wavering between childlike and charming, placing another chocolate seductively between his lips, planning a weekend of relaxing by the pool and sipping champagne. I caressed his beard and he kissed me good night with a passion and longing planting a seed for tomorrow. I can still remember being excited to turn in early and be fresh for school the next morning where my teaching partner and I were putting the finishing touches on our syllabi confident this next school year was destined to be legendary.
Content I would be, to live in a continuous loop of that final stroll down the hallway towards bed. The simplicity of brushing my teeth, absently looking for my phone, momentarily forgetting it was plugged in on my nightstand in sleep mode. Where even I, as jaded as I considered myself to be, was still naive to the truly savage injustices of this world. Where, I would have declared cruelty and I knew each other intimately, would have been confident I had spent my life in careful study of Shakespearean tragedies, and the epic catastrophes which occur in the work of a moment. In retrospect, I realize, while I had dined at disaster’s table, I had never been force fed devastation.
Unable to speak, unable to offer this poor little girl help or assistance, I stood awkwardly off to the side of someone else’s tragedy, not even an impotent side character but a member of The Chorus. The old impulse was to simply fade away, use the crosswalk to safely find my way back onto my path and return callously, to my own affairs. But I find, it's not easy anymore, to tear myself away from misfortune. In fact, sometimes I fear I’ve carved out a new role for myself on this stage: the vigilante.
I catch myself searching for victims to save, intent I won’t let anyone but myself suffer on my watch. When I’m driving in my neighborhood, and it’s my turn at a stop sign with children crossing the street, cars inching aggressively upon them, too important and impatient to wait their rightful turn, I drive my car alongside these wee ones taking my sweet time to turn, ensuring each child’s safe passage even at my fellow driver’s chagrin. Every single step they take across the street is symbolic of a future they will have the privilege to live. I do not know these children, and they do not know me, anonymity a comforting bubble in my quest to right future wrongs. What I know is if I can protect one family’s innocence even for just one more day, I may have a chance to sleep tonight.
Being a vigilante is lonely, especially when there’s no one to save. And then, there’s the inevitable confrontation: who protects the vigilante? Last week, with the time change, I lost track of the sunset on my evening run and upon reaching the fateful crosswalk, I froze yet again. Just a few yards obscured by the dark separating me from my home. Taking a deep breath I decided, tonight, I’m not the Vigilante, I’m the Trickster, and I’m here to foil your plot.
Being a Vigilante is lonely...especially when there's no one to save.
Turning up my music, the age old proverb echoes through my soul:
Will there be singing and dancing in dark times? Yes, there will be singing and dancing about the dark times.
With each note blaring through my AirPods, a private disco for me to revel, the neighborhood transforms from a stage to a dance floor. I took a step onto the asphalt, the wind blowing through the few leaves remaining in the trees and I glared defiantly at the full moon before dancing joyfully through the crosswalk, waving my arms, crooning loudly, “I’m still here, Universe! What are you going to do about it?”